


One Flash Of Light, But No Smoking Pistol

by vallhalla



Category: Bandom, I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 19:06:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11789520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhalla/pseuds/vallhalla
Summary: Brendon has been time traveling for as long as he can remember. He forgets most and remembers very little, until he meets Dallon Weekes, who claims to have known him since he was a child.





	1. (I'll See You Soon)

**Author's Note:**

> this might just be my favorite thing that i've ever written.
> 
> the original idea comes from shorthalt on tumblr, who made a post about "a historian falling in love with a time traveler". i fell in love with the idea and twisted it a little to my liking. thank you so much!
> 
> the title of the work comes from David Bowie's "ashes to ashes", and the titles of the chapters come from the poem by Kev Elmer. this chapter is a prologue, then there is part one and two, then an epilogue. I tried really hard to make them as long as possible, but i didn't want to force it. hopefully its long enough to your liking!
> 
> warnings: elements of underage (if you look at it that way), excessive drinking, mentions of self harm, allusions to abuse, religious undertones
> 
> note: this is unbeta'd. if you see any glaring mistakes, please point them out to me!
> 
> special thanks:
> 
> ellie and aidan, who will never read this
> 
> holly, sarah, yuumi, esmee, rheen, cj, and rachel, thank you for always listening to me ramble about how much i didn't want to write this
> 
> Celery Sticks. you know whats up
> 
> and Kasey, the best girlfriend in the world. i love you.

Brendon wasn’t sure how long he had been alive.

He wasn’t sure where he was born, or what year it had been or where his family was. The only things Brendon was sure of was that his name was Brendon and that he liked Frank Sinatra.

He kept a backpack full of clothes and various items that he had acquired from his travels strapped to his back at all times. A third generation iPod Nano full of mostly Frank Sinatra, David Bowie, and Queen was his favorite companion, and was one of the few technologies that Brendon had found worked no matter where in time he travelled. A thick, black leather notebook that had seen better days. He liked the small brass telescope, too, the kind of thing that movie pirates use.

The stars were the same no matter where Brendon went. 

Brendon knew all the constellations in the sky. He knew Gemini and Ursa Minor and Columba and Ara and could tell you the names of all the stars in them. He remembers sitting on a hill, in the outskirts of Pella, Greece, in 347 BC, next to Aratus, who spoke sweetly of the stars and the planets and kissed like he was a supernova. 

There too are the most swift courses of the Ram, who, pursued through the longest circuit, runs not a whit slower than the Bear Cynosura – himself weak and starless as on a moonlit night, but yet by the belt of Andromeda thou canst trace him out.

Brendon had those lines memorized.

That was a long time ago, though. He had met new people, since then. Forgot most of their faces and all their stories. Stole their clothes and their food and some kisses. Brendon wondered if he had been something substantial in their lives, more than just a blip in time. Did they tell their grandchildren about the guy with the strange clothing who was there one second and gone the next? Or maybe Brendon was their dirty little secret.

Not that Brendon made a habit of sleeping with all the generous folks he met. Not in recent memory, at least. He didn’t know what the old Brendon was like. 

Could he even say that? He wasn’t sure if the  _ Old Brendon  _ was thousands of years ago or a few days ago. He didn’t know how far his memory went. Brendon could have no memory of doing something but as soon as his companion at that moment mentions some historical event he can suddenly launch into the story of how he slept with three girls in one of the bathrooms at Woodstock, or sitting at the edge of the Titanic, watching the waves below push up against the boat with a fierce energy that Brendon almost understood.

Brendon forgot a lot. He remembered a lot, too. He knew the constellations and could speak every god damn language and read  _ books _ , hundreds and hundreds of books. He’s shaken the hand of every United States president except for two and pets every dog he comes across.

It wasn’t a bad life.

Brendon sat in front of the grave, resting his chin on his knuckles. 

He would’ve liked Woodstock. And the Titanic. And Aratus- they would’ve gotten along so well. And books, he had  _ loved  _ books, more than Brendon. Brendon was always bringing him books, never came back without a new one. They had filled the shelves in the little apartment that he had lived in for most of his life with books; he would be the only person in the twenty-first century to read them. 

Brendon missed him.

He could still see him, sometimes. But he had to be careful. Brendon got to pick and choose where he went. He could get greedy. He could get stuck. 

Brendon reached forward, running his fingers along the grooves in the stone. It was older, right now. A few years, maybe. Brendon wasn’t sure what year he was in right now.

He traced the letters slowly. 

D-A-L-L-O-N J W-E-E-K-E-S.


	2. Ashes to Ashes

Brendon liked the twenty-first century.

Flashing lights, good music, people on drugs, and YouTube.

Brendon didn’t have a ranked list of decades or years, but he definitely had times that he liked visiting more than others. He avoided times of war and poverty for the most part, sometimes popping in and out with food and water and spare change to give, but could stay for an extended periods of time in places he liked. Ancient Greece, South-west Pangea, turn of the century France, New York City post World War three; all favorites that he liked to return to.

Clearfield, Utah, was not a favorite _or_ a least favorite, but Brendon had visited once or twice before, as he had most places. It had some charm, Brendon supposed, a big aquatic center and a train station and something called a _Municipal Building_.

Mountains lined the sky, the sun just above them, the blue sky just barely starting to turn pink. Brendon glanced down at his watch, then back up. He had a little while before the sun set and he had to leave. He knew a guy in Chicago a few years from now that would give him a meal and a nice place to sleep if he asked real nice.

He had just crossed his legs underneath him on the bench when he heard, “Brendon?”

Brendon’s head snapped up, didn't see anyone in front of him, then turned to his right. Next to him stood four guys, maybe fifteen or sixteen, staring at him expectantly. None of them stood out, maybe one guy far taller and another a lot shorter than the other two, but as far as Brendon was concerned, he had never met any of them. He wasn’t even sure who had spoken.

Even if he didn't know them, he still smiled politely. “Hi!” Brendon stood quickly, scooping up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulders. A voice that wasn’t Brendon’s reminded him to use his manners. “Do we know each other? I meet a lot of people, faces and names start to blur together.”

The guys all glance towards the tallest kid. The blond nudges tall-dude, which Brendon has nicknamed him, who looks sad and almost _understanding_. Brendon suddenly can’t keep his eyes off of him. “Dal, I don’t think it’s him.”

Tall-dude, Dal, shakes his head. “Hey, you guys go on ahead. I’ll meet you at Drew’s.”

The curly haired kid blinks at tall-dude. “Seriously?”

Curly backs off after the look that tall-dude shoots him. “Okay, okay, whatever you say. See you there.”

The three teens give tall-dude one last look before walking past the bench that Brendon had been perched on before he was interrupted. Tall-dude kept his eyes on Brendon’s face, but Brendon was avoiding eye contact, instead looking at the black converse of the kid in front of him, or the t-shirt with the fire-station logo. Nothing was ringing any bells.

Finally, after what Brendon assumed was the others getting out of earshot, tall-dude spoke up. “Where are you right now?”

Brendon blinked, looking back up at tall-dude’s face. He was practically void of emotion, and his eyes were still trained on Brendon’s face. Why was this kid so intimidating? “Uh, Utah, right?”

“No I meant-” Tall-dude cut himself off. Brendon was confused, which wasn’t an emotion he experienced often. “You really don’t know who I am?”

Brendon tucked his hands into the front pockets of the jacket he was wearing. He’d gotten it from a lost and found a few decades down the line and had grown fond of it. “No, sorry. Like I said-”

“You’ve never forgotten me before.” Tall-dude (jesus christ, Brendon needed to figure out this kids’ name) rubbed the back of his neck. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in a while. After what happened with my dad last year I wasn’t sure if-”

“What?” His dad? Last year? Oh fuck, _future_ Brendon had probably met this kid before.

Realization dawned on tall-dude’s face at the same time Brendon was putting the pieces together.

“Oh. We haven’t met before.” Tall-dude sounded sad.

Brendon kicked a rock into the road, “No, we haven’t. Well. _I_ haven’t. You clearly have.”

Tall-dude blushed crimson. “You came a lot when I was a kid. Your visits got less frequent as I got older. I haven't seen you since…”

“Something with your dad, last year.”

“Yeah.”

Brendon sat back down on the bench, setting his backpack next to him. Tall-dude sat down on Brendon’s other side, the bag in between them. Brendon was lost. He never visited the same person more often than he had to, and from what tall-dude was saying, he visited him a _lot_.

But he had been younger. Brendon liked kids.

Tall-dude sucked in a tight breath. “I know that. You don’t know me, but I know you. _Really_ well. And I missed you.”

Brendon looked over at his companion, squinting his eyes. Tall-dude was small in stature, probably still had more to grow on his already towering height, with a boyish face and pointy features. After a few moments of silence, Brendon spoke up. “I don’t know your name yet.”

“Dallon James Weekes.” Dallon stuck out a hand towards Brendon after a beat.

Brendon looked at the hand, then shook it. “Why the full name, Dallon James Weekes?”

Dallon beamed so brightly that Brendon couldn't help but smile back as he released his hand. “You’ve always called me by my full name.”

“Now it's set in stone.”

“In _time_.”

Brendon looked back up at the pink sky. He had missed the sunset. That was okay. He could always go back and watch it again. “How old are you, Dallon?”

“Seventeen.”

Brendon hummed, looking down. “When did we first meet? I mean, for you.”

Dallon hadn’t taken his eyes off Brendon, not that Brendon cared that much. Dallon was intimidating and wise beyond his years, or so it seemed, but Brendon was used to people looking at him. He always stuck out like a sore thumb. Dallon scratched his cheek. “It’s hard to explain. You should probably just experience it for yourself. Time works like fate.”

“Who told you that?”

“You.”

Huh. Brendon would have to write that down, so he wouldn’t forget. Brendon was always afraid of forgetting. Some things were just important to remember.

Brendon looked over at Dallon, who Brendon would see again. Sooner or later.

Dallon opened his mouth, but Brendon was already standing and speaking before any words could come out. “I just came from a, uh, library. In a city called Schmuel, in 2098.” Brendon picked up his bag, digging through it. He eventually pulled out a book. It was smaller in length but taller in height and heavier than Dallon was expecting when Brendon passed it to him.

Something crosses Dallon’s face when he pulls the book to his chest. “It’s about, vampires, or something. You’d think they’d get bored of vampires by the turn of the century but _no_ -”

“Thank you. Really.”

Brendon smiled, saluted, turned, and was gone in the blink of an eye. The last thing he saw was a grin spreading across Dallon’s face as he backed away from their bench, a bit of a skip in his step.

<•>

Dallon aged well. _Extremely_ well. So well, in fact, that it took Brendon a few seconds to recognize him.

Brendon had been wandering a college campus looking for somewhere to get coffee when he was forcefully dragged into a shaded part of the little park he was in. His first thought was _fuck they caught me mom will never forgive me_ before the thought was gone within the next second. Brendon blinked a few times, adjusting his vision as the figure in front of him got closer to his face.

Same pointy face, but it was no longer boyish. It was _handsome_ , more filled out and there was a bit of stubble on his chin, and _Jesus Christ_ that kid that he had met grew up to _this_?

Brendon’s face split into a lopsided grin. “Dallon James Weekes!”

Relief crossed Dallon’s face. He gently patted Brendon’s cheek before stepping back, running a hand through his, now shorter, hair.

Dallon was dressed nicely, a short sleeved button up accompanied by a _bow tie_ of all things and black slacks, but still donned converse. Brendon wondered if they were the same ones. He had glasses on, but when Brendon looked at them, Dallon quickly moved them up to the top of his head. “Where are you right now?”

Brendon understood that game, now. “Dinner with Queen Victoria was exquisite, but British people make me tired with their _tea_ and _biscuits._ I was looking for coffee. Where are _you_?”

“Teaching. History.” Dallon didn’t sound too happy about it. “I’m thirty two.”

Now it was Brendon's turn to reach forward and pat Dallon’s face affectionately. Dallon rolled his eyes and said, “and I have a fucking _doctorate_. Teaching students who could care less about what I’m talking about. Speaking of which, I found you a few weeks ago.”

“Found me?”

Dallon crouched down, and only then did Brendon notice that a suit jacket and shoulder bag were sitting against the tree they were under. Dallon stood back up with a worn journal, all of the pages wrinkled and filled with writing as he flipped through it. Dallon landed on a page that was in significantly better shape than the ones before it and pulled out a picture that looked to be torn from a book or magazine. Dallon held it up to Brendon, who took it and looked at it closely. It was a picture of a wall, a cave wall? It was covered in paintings from cavemen, depicting hunting for animals or stories of deities the world has long forgotten. In the corner, though, words were scrawled, practically incomprehensible.

Brendon knew what it said, though.

 **‘** HI DALLON! :) **’**

“You have horrible handwriting,” Dallon says, offhandedly. Brendon passes it back, shrugging.

“I don’t remember doing that. Or I haven’t done it yet.”

“Let’s hope it’s the latter. Everytime I see you I worry you won’t recognize me.”

“Funny thing, that. I actually just met you.”

Dallon blinked, shutting his journal too quickly. “Really?”

Brendon nodded, eyeing the notebook that was being held tightly in Dallon’s hands. “Mhm. Seventeen! You were so little. Now look at you. Old man.”

Dallon blushed, quickly crouching down to put his journal back in the bag, picking it up along with his jacket. “I’m not old, yet.” Dallon slung his bag over one shoulder, then looked at Brendon expectantly. A few seconds passed before something crossed Dallon’s face. “Oh. You don’t. Book.”

Brendon took a few seconds before the gears in his head seemed to process what Dallon was saying. “Oh!” He reached behind him, digging through his bag before pulling out a thick book with ‘THE ILIAD OF HOMER’ written on it. His bag felt lighter. “One of the originals, I think.”

Dallon’s eyes lit up as Brendon handed it to him. He held it to his chest, just like he had done when he was seventeen. Something swelled inside Brendon’s chest. “See you later?”

Dallon gave Brendon a thin smile. “Or earlier.”

<•>

There was something to be said about the specifics of time travel.

That being said, Brendon didn’t know any. He had never met anyone else who time traveled or anyone who knew anything about it. Science said it wasn’t possible no matter how far forward you went and most people don’t understand what Brendon says the farther back you go. He knew that there was some sort of conspiracy theory about time travelers that anyone could find through a quick internet search (assuming they’re from the digital age), but they knew less than Brendon did, anyway. Brendon didn’t carry around any special gadget or didn’t have to say any special words he had to say. He just needed to concentrate on where he wanted to be, and then he would be there. Sometimes you needed to be a bit more specific, like, Brendon wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. He _didn’t_ want to end up in the middle of the air, falling to his death in front of hundreds of horrified visitors. He had jumped away before he could plummet to his imminent demise, but he often wonders how many people he scarred that day, or if he was an internet phenomenon. Brendon didn’t know all the specifics of time travel, but he figures that there is a lot that someone else thinks about more than he does.

So Brendon blamed the specifics when he ended up in Dallon James Weekes’ bed at some ungodly hour in the morning.

He had opened his eyes and tried to sit up immediately, but had just further tangled up into the white sheets, a faint light behind them. If he died, strangled by someone’s _bed sheets_ , Brendon thought that falling to his death in the Grand Canyon would be far less embarrassing.

After what felt like an eternity, the sheet was ripped back, Dallon’s face hovering above Brendon’s quizzically. Both men stared at each other, equally confused.

“What the hell?” Dallon spoke first, then, “Where are you right now?”

Brendon was breathing heavily, his face wet with sweat. He managed to gasp out, “I don’t know.”

Dallon moved away. Brendon sat up quickly, shedding his jacket and backpack, tossing it at the foot of the bed. Where had he just come from? His heart was beating too fast, he couldn’t think properly. Why had he come here, to a teenage Dallon’s room? Dallon hadn’t been in bed when Brendon showed up, the light was on and Dallon was in a rolling desk chair, facing away from Brendon. He was bent over a desk that held the only source of light in the room, one of those bendable desk lamps pointed towards papers strewn across the desk. Whatever he was doing, it was important.

In an attempt to calm himself down, Brendon looked around the tiny room. It was just about the smallest bedroom for a teenager that Brendon had ever been in, the bed taking up most of the space, pressed up into the corner. Right next to the bed was the desk that Dallon was now sat at, and on the wall next to that, and taking up all the wallspace, was a large bookcase filled with books and some figurines of people and characters that Brendon didn’t recognize. Brendon wondered how many of those books he had given Dallon. The clock next to Dallon read 3:45 AM in blinking green letters.

Dallon was only wearing a white t-shirt and boxers. He was older than the last time Brendon had seen teen-Dallon, his hair was black and maybe a bit shorter. He wrote with his left hand quickly, head occasionally shifting to look at something that was in a textbook.

“Dallon-” Brendon started, but was quickly cut off.

“Hold on. Just give me,” Dallon looked at the clock, where two minutes had passed, “thirteen minutes.”

Brendon exhaled, his heartbeat down to normal, but still uncomfortably sweaty. Brendon kicked off his shoes, quietly putting them on the floor next to the bed, assuming that there were other people asleep in the house. Brendon pressed his head against the back wall, a light thump resounding between the silence. Dallon flinched, but didn’t get up, just stayed still, his hand paused on the paper.

Silence.

Dallon let out a shaky breath and continued.

Brendon watched Dallon work for the slow thirteen minutes, considering jumping ahead, but favoring the smooth way that Dallon’s hands were sliding across the page or how once in awhile, Dallon would reach forward for something, his shirt riding up his back to reveal pale skin. Brendon gulped.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, Dallon shut a book and spun around, making Brendon jump. Brendon watched carefully as Dallon tiptoed onto the bed next to Brendon, placing himself on his right towards the head of the bed. Brendon looked down at their legs, his socked feet next to Dallon’s bare toes. “How old are you right now?”

“Eighteen.” When Brendon didn’t say anything in response, Dallon continued, looking warily at the books on his desk, “exams are tomorrow. Jaime and I are at each others’ heels trying to get valedictorian. I’m way ahead in history and English, but with where we are right now, his science and math grades are far superior to mine.”

Brendon nodded in understanding, bumping their shoulders lightly. “You should go to sleep. There’s no way you’re gonna beat that guy if you’re running on no sleep.”

Dallon shrugged, then looked over at Brendon, his eyes moving up and down his face. Brendon pretended not to notice. “I doubt I’ll be asleep any time soon. Besides, you’re here.”

“I can leave.”

“No!” Dallon quickly grabbed Brendon’s arm. “Stay. Please.”

Brendon exhaled, studying Dallon, his chest tight. Dallon’s eyes were hooded with dark circles, and he was starting to grow stubble, things that hadn’t been on his face when he was seventeen. “Okay.”

Dallon sighed and ducked his head. For a moment, Brendon thought Dallon was going to kiss him, had felt his breath against his face for just a second, but Dallon continued down until he bumped his forehead against Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon stared straight ahead, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Dallon’s legs now pressed against his own, bent just slightly, with Dallon’s toes digging into the sheets, like he was grounding himself. Dallon’s voice was quiet and muffled against Brendon’s shoulder when he spoke. “I always miss you when you’re gone.”

Something in Brendon’s stomach fluttered. “I can’t do much about that. I have other places to see, people to visit.”

“Cute boys to entertain.” There was a blush hidden in Dallon’s voice. He meant it jokingly, but it came out tight and a little hurt.

Not sure why he said it, Brendon whispered, “No, you’re the only one.”

Dallon didn’t say anything to that, but Brendon thought he felt Dallon bite his shoulder to hold back from smiling too much. Brendon couldn’t help but smile, himself.

The warm body beside Brendon moved away, leaning forward to reach under the bed. Brendon didn’t look at his ass, he swears.

Dallon returned with a small instrument, a ukulele. He sat back down in his spot, crossing his legs underneath him. Brendon watched as Dallon strummed softly, humming a little melody underneath his breath. “Sing, go ahead.”

Dallon sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, then opened his mouth to sing. “ _Show me the door, I promise that I won’t come here no more, if you just tell me, what you think about me,_ ” Dallon’s face scrunched up, and all Brendon could think was that it was unbearably _cute_ . “ _I can collect all my things from the floor_.”

The gentle ukulele continued on for another verse. Dallon did this funny thing when he sang, a little vibrato between notes, airy and light. Brendon almost felt like he was listening to silk, personified. “ _Promise the next time, that you take my hand, it’s to show me the door.”_  Dallon repeated that last line, quieter, opening one eye to look at Brendon. One last strum signaled the end of the song, Dallon putting the ukulele on the bed next to him. Brendon mimicked Dallon earlier, thumping his forehead against Dallon’s shoulder. “Did you write that?”

“Mhm. It’s not very good.”

“You kidding? That was great, and I’ve heard a lot of music in my life.” Brendon set his chin on Dallon’s shoulder lightly, studying the profile of his face. The scarce lighting in the room made Brendon squint. Dallon had a very small smile on his face, his white teeth just visible between his lips.

“Thank you.” Dallon turned his face, just inches away from Brendon’s.

Have control, Brendon, don’t do something-

Dallon’s lips were suddenly on Brendon’s, just barely, not nearly anything to really be considered amazing by any means, but quickly, too quickly, Dallon is moving in, pressing his hand against the side of Brendon’s face just like thirty-something-year-old-Dallon had done the last time Brendon had seen him, but less affectionately and more _I want to put my tongue inside your mouth right now._ Before Brendon could even form real, coherent thoughts, Dallon swung a long leg over Brendon’s lap so he was straddling him, a weight over Brendon that was _welcomed_ and not uncomfortable when it _should_ be.

At a loss, Brendon placed one hand on Dallon’s hip and the other on the back of Dallon’s neck, tugging him down as close as he could get.

“Brendon,” Dallon muttered, or moaned, maybe, pushing his tongue into Brendon’s mouth with clear intentions. Where’d this kid learn to kiss? Or, worse, had they done this before?

Dallon pulled away to breath, his eyes still closed, and when he leaned in again, Brendon was gone, a worn copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ in his place.

<•>

‘No rest for the wicked’ was Brendon’s motto.

So he didn’t sleep much. Every once in awhile he popped in with a man named Jon Walker who lived in Chicago and tended to let wayward boys stay in his apartment, which was his go-to place to sleep. It was cozy and he had some dogs and a cat and could make pretty good pad-Thai. Brendon liked Jon because Jon didn’t ask why Brendon never aged or why he went of the grid for years on end.

Brendon stretched, arms over his head, waiting for the door to swing open and reveal Jon’s kind face. His ears were still ringing from the Metallica reunion concert he had just gone to and as he stood alone in the hallway, he hummed _Nothing Else Matters_ quietly.

Yeah. He needed a nap after that.

The door opened. Jon was older, now, maybe forty or fifty, and was a bit more beard-y than usual. “Brendon, it's been a while!”

“Has it? Could’ve sworn I was just here eating some of that delicious pad-Thai yesterday.”

Jon laughed, and it was comforting. He backed away from the open door, allowing Brendon room to squeeze into the small entryway. “I have a guest over, but I wouldn’t mind cooking you dinner. He was talking about leaving anyway.”

“I’m no stranger to strangers, he can stay if he wants.”

Brendon stepped into the little living room, and was surprised to find that it was no stranger at all.

“Brendon?” Dallon said, standing up quickly. Brendon could feel Jon behind him, but Brendon had just gotten very, very warm, the memory of Brendon’s last encounter with Dallon still burned into his skin.

“D-Dallon,” Brendon stuttered out. “-James Weekes,” he added, for good measure.

“You two know each other?” Jon asked, looking between the pair, who could only look at each other. Dallon was about the same age as Jon, now, with those glasses on and a fancy vest, plus bow tie.

Dallon blinked, pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “Uh, yeah. Long story.”

Brendon wanted to remark _a bit shorter on my end,_ but didn’t. Jon hummed, and like always, didn’t ask questions. “Alright then. Saves the trouble of introducing you. Dallon, you wanna stay for dinner?”

“I have to go home, papers to grade-”

“No!” Brendon yelped, sounding like eighteen year old Dallon previously. “Stay, please.”

Dallon stared Brendon down, grinding his teeth. He let out a low exhale then said something like, “okay.”

Jon grinned at the two of them, not sensing the thick air at all. “Great! I’ll start cookin’!” And with that, Jon disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him.

Dallon and Brendon stared at each other. Brendon wondered what he had done _besides_ leave the guy hanging when he was eighteen, because it had been a good few years since then.

Brendon said, “How old are you?” at the same time Dallon said, “Where are you right now?”

The tension was broken just like that. Brendon stepped forward, pulling Dallon into the tightest hug he could muster, hoping to apologize for something he hadn’t done yet. Dallon was a head taller than Brendon, his nose pressed into Brendon’s hair. Brendon buried his face into the smooth vest, breathing Dallon in.

They pulled away, but didn’t separate. Brendon held onto both sides of the vest, still not sure if Dallon was really in front of him. “I just came from a Metallica reunion concert, was planning on getting some sleep here.”

“A Metallica reunion-?”

“Holograms. Don’t question it too much; that tech is far away from this day and age.”

Dallon nodded, pressing his hands to either side of Brendon’s face. Brendon realized that Dallon did that a lot. “Forty-four, still teaching college students who hate their lives.”

“And you know Jon…”

“He teaches in the science department. History and science share a building and we just became friends, I guess.”

Brendon wants to kiss him, pull him down and press their mouths together. Pick up where they left off when Dallon was eighteen. He’s older now, but he’s not less handsome, even with the smile lines and tiredness to him. His hair isn’t dyed black, now a natural soft brown that Brendon likes. He has that look in his blue eyes that reminds Brendon that Dallon understands the world better than everyone else.

Instead, they sit on Jon’s couch, a bit of space in between them.

Brendon pulled a black book with _Andora’s Tale_ written in silver letters. Brendon wasn’t sure what it was about, but he had gotten it off of a woman on the street of a tiny island off the coast of Japan a couple hundred years from now. Dallon took it excitedly. Brendon didn’t go anywhere without a book anymore.

“What about us? Where are you with us?”

Brendon’s face flushes pink. “You were eighteen, studying for your exams. And uh, you played the ukulele.”

It’s Dallon's turn to turn red and look away from the time traveler next to him. Brendon rubs the neck of his neck, looking over at Jon’s cat as it crawls across one of the armchairs in the corner of the room. That poor cat, it leads such a simple life.

Brendon looks back to Dallon, who is rubbing his eyes tiredly. Brendon can almost see the exhausted high school student in him. “Are you… do you get mad at me about it? When I see you again. Will you be upset?”

Dallon looks back over at Brendon, a soft and open look on his face. There are no heavy bags under his eyes or acne on his forehead; this isn’t the Dallon that Brendon had kissed, that was for sure. “Yeah. _Really_ upset. I failed my AP United States History exam the next day, just to spite you.”

“You did _not_!”

Dallon laughs, despite himself, even as Brendon smacks his arm. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I still ended up Valedictorian because I was way ahead of Jamie Brobeck anyway. I may have failed it on purpose, but he certainly didn’t.” Brendon had moved closer to hit Dallon, their legs bumping. Dallon pressed his forehead against Brendon’s shoulder. “But I’ll get over it. I always do.”

Brendon has probably broken Dallon’s heart a few hundred times. Every time he leaves, onto the next adventure. Brendon was slowly realizing that Dallon had a focus on history because of Brendon. He found him in history books, and probably kept an eye on the internet for his whereabouts.

Comfortable silence passed between them, Jon’s distant humming coming from behind the door to the kitchen. Dallon had said that he was always afraid that Brendon would forget him. Because Brendon didn’t remember much. Didn’t know why he had appeared in Dallon’s room that night, or how he met Jon, and why he didn’t stay in one spot for too long.

But he didn't want to forget, either.

<•>

When Brendon was feeling particularly sad, he liked to visit dog parks.

Because, well, dogs were easy. Brendon didn’t have to be charismatic, or explain why he was wearing a shirt from the fifteenth century with spandex pants from the twenty-third and sporting a nasty black eye that he didn’t remember getting. Dogs just want you to throw the ball and scratch behind their ear.

Brendon was busy playing tug-of-war with a fluffy samoyed when he heard his name called.

He instinctively let go of the rope, looking around to find the source of the voice. The dog scampered off to go find her owner, leaving Brendon alone on the ground. Brendon huffed, rubbing his black eye gingerly.

“Brendon, Brendon!” He heard the sound of a dog collar moving against a leash to his right, along with the voice of a kid. Brendon looked over.

Oh fu-

“Dallon James Weekes!” Brendon said, his mouth falling open comically. A little Dallon stood in front of him, and not little like seventeen, little like a kid. A _child_. With fluffy brown hair and a round face and a smile so wide Brendon could see teeth missing. It was daunting, to see Dallon when he wasn’t towering over everyone with his height or dressed up with a bow tie.

Dallon was being led by a little brown and white dog that Brendon had never seen before. The dog stopped, sniffing at Brendon’s shoulder, but Brendon wasn’t paying any attention to it, his eyes on the little boy in front of him.

Dallon cocked his head to the side, and that was new, something he had never done before, his eyes on Brendon, too. Brendon was ready for the words to come out of his mouth, any second, _where are you right_ -

“You have a black eye.” Brendon automatically reached up to touch it lightly. Brendon was taken aback at how _adult_ the words sounded coming from this child. This child that Brendon had touched, had _kissed_ -

Brendon’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. “Yeah. You should see the other guy.” Brendon tore his eyes away from Dallon. He knew this was coming. He had. Seventeen year old Dallon had said that Brendon visited the most when he was a child. He needed to get used to this image. Quickly.

Brendon reached out, petting the dog, who panted happily. “This is the youngest I’ve seen you.”

Dallon sat down next to Brendon on the grass, his toothy smile never leaving his face. He was missing one of his top front teeth and two on the bottom, Brendon noticed. “Really?” Brendon nodded, “how do I look?”

Brendon snorted. “Young, really young. Little, maybe.”

“‘m not little.” Brendon felt like agreeing, but was unsure what to say around the kid. Dallon’s presence, no matter what age, is larger than life. Brendon felt like he was running uphill, or up a mountain. Scaling the world’s largest tree where Brendon was the smallest squirrel.

“Nah, you got lots of time to grow, kiddo.” Brendon exhaled slowly. “You’re gonna be like, six-foot-infinity.”

Dallon ran his small hand down his dog’s back, a smaller, more affectionate smile on his face now. Brendon liked this version of Dallon, open and not always straight faced or tight lipped.

“Zero missed you,” Dallon says, referring to the dog. Zero licks Brendon’s cheek, making him laugh, his heart swelling. Brendon hadn’t met the dog before, but liked her already.

“How old are you, Dallon?” Brendon asks as casually as he can when Zero lays her head in Brendon’s lap.

“Eight!” Dallon pressed his hands to his chest and leaned in, whispering, “but ma says that i’m too smart for just eight. She says that I must be hundreds and hundreds of lives in!”

Brendon swallowed. “I believe it. You’re the smartest guy I know.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Have I?” Brendon knew the answer.

“Mhm. Ma believes in all sorts of things. Dad just makes us go to church on Sundays.” Dallon pulls absently at one of his longer strands of hair and Brendon watches closely. Dallon seemed to fade in and out of making sense and avoiding that line altogether, but was just an absent minded child. “And church is _boring_. It’s not real history.”

“Some of it is.”

Dallon waved a hand and didn’t say anything else regarding that subject.

“I just came from that time. Went and watched some shows in the Flavian Amphitheatre.”

“What’d ya see?”

“The story of the Odyssey. Know it?”

“Homer.”

“Mhm. It’s a strange story, innit?”

“Ma didn’t get it.”

Brendon hummed, looking around. A lot of people have left the park since he had first arrived. Where were Dallon’s parents, right now?

“Are you here by yourself, Dallon?”

Dallon shrugged, looking over at Brendon, his childish blue eyes wide and understanding. “No, Jordan’s here with his girlfriend, somewhere. Did you get the black eye from a gladiatorial contest in Rome?”

This kid was more of a mystery than any of the older versions that Brendon had met.

“You know I’m not strong enough for that. I’d just judge ‘em.” Brendon stuck his arm out, signaling a thumbs up, then a thumbs down. “ _Pollice verso_.”

Dallon giggled, then turned suddenly, looking in the direction he had come from. A guy was standing a few yards away with a girl. Brendon figured it was Jordan and his girlfriend, whoever they were. “I have to go now.”

Brendon reached into his backpack as Dallon stood up, pulling Zero with him. “Here, _War and Peace_. If your little mind can handle it.”

“I’m not-”

“Dallon! Ma is gonna wonder where we are!”

Dallon looked behind him at the couple, then back at Brendon, taking the book. “Come back soon.”

Dallon turned away, beginning to walk back to his brother before glancing behind, wanting one last look.

Brendon was gone.

<•>

Drunk time traveling was Brendon’s version of drunk driving. They worked in roughly the same way, Brendon assumed, what with the danger of ending up in places you didn't want to be or putting yourself and probably others into danger.

Was Brendon in danger? He didn’t think so. He’d been partying with some Persians in a year he didn’t remember and had had four or five too many drinks, but they just kept _handing_ them to him, he eventually just jumped away. To… here. Wherever that is.

The grass around him was wet with dew and smelled nice. Familiar, somehow.

God, he was so fucking drunk.

The sky overhead looked like a Van Gogh painting. There was Orion, but it was a bit more lopsided than usual. And Cassiopeia, but when Brendon muttered it aloud to himself he couldn’t get all the syllables in the right spots. Oh, and there he was- right above Brendon was himself, the ram, weak and starless.

Brendon squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears welling up in his eyes. He wasn’t going to fucking cry. He was drunk and he didn’t know where he was and he missed… he missed _someone_ , touch, contact, soft brown eyes with curly brown hair, or no, maybe _blue eyes_ with dark hair and legs for miles and miles and miles.

Brendon ran a hand down his face. He had gloves on, those ones with the fingers cut off. He didn’t remember putting them on. He didn't remember much from the last jump, and not in the normal Brendon Forgets Everything way.

Sitting up proved to be difficult, so he promptly turned onto his side and vomited. Not much came up, just stomach acid and anything that remained in his system after that jump, but the action still made him dizzy. Returning to his back a few inches away from his insides was the ultimate decision he made.

There was music coming from somewhere, from a direction that Brendon couldn’t really pinpoint. Sober Brendon could’ve played name-that-tune with himself as he laid here, but Drunk Brendon was struggling to even focus on the stars above him. Tears were still streaming down Brendon’s face. He wished he knew where he was, he wished he knew what he was always trying to get away from, why he was drinking-

“Did you throw up right here? Like, for real?”

Brendon sniffed and let out something between a laugh and a sob. He always ended up here, didn’t he?

Dallon sighed, and Brendon didn’t have to look over to know that Dallon was lying down somewhere above and next to Brendon, like that movie poster that Brendon couldn’t place. Brendon closed his eyes, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that everything was normal. He wasn’t drunk and couldn’t time travel and he and Dallon were the same age, whatever that was at the moment, and it was just _normal_ , two people looking at the sky.

Brendon knew all the constellations. But now, he couldn’t even find Ursa Major.

A nose pressed against the shell of Brendon’s ear. He closed his eyes.

“Where are you right now?” Dallon said, just barely a whisper.

Brendon breathed in heavily, his chest getting gradually shakier with each moment that passed. “I was at some, some _party._ And I got drunk and I jumped which wasn’t a good idea because now I don’t know where I am and I want to go _home_.”

But where was home?

“Where’s home?”

Brendon didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

Brendon felt Dallon’s slow and even breaths. What a contrast to the strange little kid he had just met.

“I’m twenty-two. We are currently in the courtyard of the University of Oklahoma. I was walking home from that party over there.”

“Look at us. Party animals.”

“Mm, not anymore.  I was going to drop something off to Ryan. I haven’t drank since my twenty-first birthday.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Brendon was expecting that answer, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

They laid there in silence for a long time. The sky started to come into focus as _Africa_ by Toto got louder from the house down the street. Dallon hummed along, so Brendon focused on that, even if he didn’t like the song very much, himself. Maybe Dallon could take him home, play him ukulele until he was sober and he could jump away to Jon’s to sleep as long as he can without feeling like he needed to be somewhere else.

Or he could stay.

Brendon wondered how long he had been laying there until Dallon had found him. Maybe he was already past his limit.

Brendon was about to jump when Dallon spoke up again. “My house isn’t far. Can you walk?”

Brendon hummed that he didn’t know, but moved to get up. Dallon was quicker, jumping to his feet and holding Brendon by his armpits, hauling him up, then proceeding to wrap a long arm around Brendon’s shoulders and the other around his middle, properly holding him up. Dallon’s head was pressed into the crook of Brendon’s neck as he slowly started to move them forward, Brendon’s feet wobbling uselessly.

He was fucked. In so many more ways than one.

Dallon pushed them down the street and around the corner, where Brendon seemed to regain composure, just a little bit. He could plant his feet properly onto the ground, but he got a little lost in placing his face into Dallon’s hair.

Dallon’s place was a little one bedroom house that he rented and apparently didn’t like the landlord, if Brendon understood him correctly as Dallon sat him down on the grungy couch that Dallon had probably picked up for free off the street, if Brendon knew anything about college. He didn't have roommates because he didn’t have friends, but Brendon didn’t believe that. Dallon kept talking as he moved in and out, grabbing blankets from a closet and a pillow from his own room, and a bucket from under the kitchen sink.

“If you need to puke, do it in here or in the bathroom.”

Brendon stared at the blankets that Dallon had dumped onto the couch. He felt like he was going to be sick again.

Dallon had taken of Brendon’s shoes and kicked off his own when they had come inside, and had set down Brendon’s backpack next to the couch. Dallon was sitting cross legged in an armchair that was too small for him, now, eating cereal dry.

Brendon pressed his face against the wooly fabric of the couch, closing his eyes.

“You have a black eye, did you know that?” Dallon spoke up through a mouth full of lucky charms.

Brendon touched his eye. It was tender, worse than it had been before.

“You should see the other guy,” Brendon said, and wondered if it sounded as bitter to Dallon as it did to Brendon.

The chewing from Dallon stopped abruptly, and Brendon heard the sound of Dallon putting the bowl down on the coffee table. “My eight year old self thought you were the coolest guy in the world.”

Brendon opened his eye that wasn’t bruised to see Dallon standing, his arms folded across his chest. He seemed upset for reasons that Brendon didn’t understand. He would, one day.

“What does twenty-two year old Dallon think?”

Dallon huffed, turning and disappearing into his bedroom.

Brendon wasn’t sure if that meant his opinion had stayed the same or if it was the opposite.

•

How had they ended up like this?

Brendon had been asleep, on his side on the couch and clutching a pillow to his chest, his other arm splayed out over the armrest, his hand held firmly in Dallon’s, who looked uncomfortable, yet asleep, in the armchair. The bowl of cereal was absent from the table, replaced by the same ukulele that Brendon had seen four years prior, Brendon must've been dead asleep when Dallon snuck back out to the living room to play it,and the journal that Brendon had seen a few times before.

He let go.

He slings his backpack over his back, after taking out the _Count of Monte Cristo_ and leaving it on the coffee table and picking up his shoes. Brendon considers picking up the notebook, flipping through it just to see why Dallon had held that thing like it was a child. But he turns away, pushing it away from the front of his mind.

One last look at Dallon, still asleep. Brendon hadn’t gotten a good look at him last night, drunk and in the dark. His hair was longer than it had been when he was a teenager or an adult but still suited him. It was probably fashionable in the college world. He was wearing just boxers now, not even a t-shirt, like he hadn't expect to fall asleep out here, his bare chest moving up and down with each steady breath.

He was so fucked.

He needed to leave.

Brendon closed his eyes and mentally kicked himself, before jumping away from the sleeping man in the living room. Eighteen year old Dallon had the right idea.

<•>

Stars take millions of years to die. When stars _do_ eventually die, it’s called a supernova.

Most supernova’s occur in binary star systems. Binary stars are two stars that orbit the same point. One of the stars, a carbon-oxygen white dwarf, steals matter from its companion star. Eventually, the white dwarf accumulates too much matter. Having too much matter causes the star to explode.

For a week or so, the supernova outshines all of the other stars in its galaxy.

Then, it fades.

All that is left is a tiny, dense object like a neutron star or a black hole, surrounded by an ever expanding cloud of hot gas. The elements that were inside the star are scattered across space, remnants destined to become other stars or even planets.

Brendon felt like that white dwarf, his remains scattered throughout time, left to become new things entirely. And Dallon was the companion star, who was having his energy slowly sucked away year by year by Brendon, who would eventually just explode anyway. He’d fade away into the history books that Dallon taught, never having made a real difference in the world no matter how long he had inhabited it or how many people he had met or kissed. History didn’t change, because whatever Brendon did was just _destined_ to happen anyway. Time worked a bit like fate, in that way.

“Wow, you really can’t change history?”

Little Dallon reminded Brendon of a supernova, too. The kind where the star runs out of nuclear fuel, so all of the mass begins to flood to its core. The core will get so heavy that it can’t contain its own gravitational force, collapsing under its own weight. Child Dallon was a supernova that was outshining entire galaxies that Brendon had created from his own explosion.

Dallon was writing something for an assignment, ten years old, now. He had to write a story that he wasn’t sharing with Brendon until it was done, but continuously asked Brendon questions about history that he was a bit foggy on.

“Don’t think so.” Brendon set his chin on top of his hand, which was balled in a fist on the table. “Everything I do is what happens, if that makes any sense.”

“Not really.” Dallon scribbled something in the margins of his lined piece of paper. “Keep talking about the stars.”

So Brendon did, Dallon listening intently, occasionally butting in to ask a question.

Time passed, twelve minutes and twenty one seconds, until Dallon shoved the filled sheets of paper away from himself. Brendon was always acutely aware of the time passing when he was around Dallon, no matter how old or how young he was. Ten year old Dallon has all of his teeth and his hair is a bit more controlled than two years prior, the mess more at the top of his head than simply _everywhere_. He’s also a bit more battered and bruised, bandages and bruises covering thin legs and arms. He says it's from playing outside and roughhousing with his brothers, but Brendon isn’t so sure. There are no nails on his small hands, chewed away by the teeth Dallon now had, and he was quiet. More than he was the few times Brendon had visited Dallon when around this age, seven or eight or nine.

Now, Dallon pulled at the skin where his fingernails should be with his small teeth, watching Brendon as he flipped through the story.

“Is this about me?”

Dallon nodded, leaning forward in his chair a little. Brendon glanced back up at Dallon, just for a moment. He was wearing a baggy t-shirt and shorts that went down to his knees, looking absurdly small in this exact moment.

“It’s really good, Dal. Better than some of the published stuff.”

“Dad’s gonna read it when he gets back.”

Brendon slid the papers back to Dallon, who took them and put them into a folder. “I don’t remember fighting dinosaurs with futuristic weapons, though.”

“Doesn’t mean it hasn’t,” Dallon mutters, tracing a line in the wood of the table with a finger. Brendon hated that the kid knew how to hit his nerves. Brendon exhaled, leaning down so that his chin hit his fist again. Dallon was in the same position across from him, his big blue eyes staring up at Brendon with wonder and his mouth turned down unpleasantly. Brendon moved forward, just a little, knocking their foreheads together once, then retreating. Dallon’s frown disappeared, his thin lips breaking apart, his tongue between his teeth.

Brendon sat up. “I have to go now, Dallon James Weekes.” Brendon reached behind himself to his backpack, slung across the back of the chair, reaching in and grabbing the book. He slid it across the table as he stood.

“ _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy._ Plenty of inspiration for your next greatest novella.”

Brendon didn’t miss the disappointment on Dallon’s face at Brendon’s departing, but he took the book anyway. He stood in front of Brendon, the book close to his chest and his hair in his eyes. “Where are you going now?”

Brendon leaned down, almost crouching, pressing his hands against the sides of Dallon’s face and his lips against the top of his head. “To go kick some dinosaur ass.”

Dallon laughed, and it was more beautiful than an exploding supernova. Brendon pulled away, but didn’t move his hands. One of Dallon’s smaller hands holding tightly onto Brendon’s wrist. “Come back as soon as you can,” Dallon said, as tightly as his ten year old voice could sound.

Brendon promised he would, then jumped away. He had wondered, at the time when he had first been told, why he visited young Dallon the most. Now, he understood.

<•>

The lecture hall that Dallon taught in was one of the smaller ones on the campus, or so Brendon had been told. A couple hundred kids packed into the room typing quickly on their laptops, or a few not paying any attention at all, browsing the internet. From where Brendon was, he could even see one kid watching a movie, though Brendon couldn’t place it. Something with lots of explosions and sex scenes. Dallon talked easily about Julius Caesar and the Roman empire, his hands waving as he walked back and forth in front of the twenty-somethings. Brendon watched with avid interest, not even _remotely_ blending in with the college students around him. The girl next to him had been sneaking him glances for the past twenty or so minutes. Brendon just figured it was his glittery pants and bomber jacket.

“Excuse me, are you-” The girl was cut off as Dallon dismissed the class. Brendon gave the girl an apologetic smile, taking in her shoulder length black hair and wide blue eyes, then stood up.

“Sorry, things to do, people to meet, you know the deal.” Brendon practically jumped down the stairs that led to where Dallon was picking up his papers, leaving the girl in the dust, a confused look on her face.

Dallon didn’t bother looking up as he put his papers into his bag. “You haven’t mastered the art of blending in, I see.” Brendon leaned over the podium, standing on his toes. Dallon was old, his hair grey and his skin wrinkling. He wore his glasses all the time, now, not just for reading. Finally, slinging his bag over his shoulder, Dallon looked up. “Where are you right now?”

Brendon stuck a glittery leg out. “The eighties! Do you think I could rock a mullet?”

Rolling his eyes, Dallon moved towards his office on the left. Brendon followed, a bounce in his step, still a little high off disco. Dallon slid into his chair behind his corner desk, opening a laptop and turning on his computer. Brendon sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, setting his elbows on top of the desk and leaning on his hand.

“No.” Dallon rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses.

Brendon frowned. “Are you okay?”

Dallon shrugged, inhaling and exhaling slowly. “I’m just tired. I can retire soon.”

He did look tired. Worn out. Brendon leaned to the side, looking over Dallon at the board covered in what Dallon called ‘Brendon Sightings’, pictures and articles from history books or online newsletters. Pinned in the corner was a polaroid of the two of them that Dallon had said was from his twenty first birthday. Brendon is holding Dallon up awkwardly, who looks passed out, or close to it, in his arms. Brendon hasn’t been there yet. He was  afraid to.

“What’re you gonna do with your free time? Look for me some more?”

Dallon laughed sarcastically. “Ha-ha. So funny. I need you to call an ambulance, I think I’m having a heart attack because I’m laughing so hard.”

It was Brendon’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sure, old man.”

They joked about Dallon’s age back and forth for a few minutes before Dallon returned to his work. He was seventy, the oldest yet. Brendon had a hard time seeing him, when he was older and tired, so he stayed clear of it for the most part. Dallon seemed to quietly understand the fact, occasionally mentioning that sometimes it’ll be years before he’ll see Brendon again. It always hurt, but it was the truth. The light in Dallon’s eyes that had signified that he knew more than the world just became the elderly wisdom all old people had. And he was always just a _little_ hunched over, his hands just a _little_ shaky when he held onto things like cups or pens.

Brendon traced the words of one of the papers on the desk to pass the time. “Do you remember, when you were ten, and you wrote that story about me?”

“And you talked about the stars.”

“Yeah. You’re a smart kid. You’re a smart adult, and a smart old man, too. You could make your own history, you know.”

Dallon smiled, just a _little_. “I can’t change the world just because a time traveler told me to.”

Grinning, Brendon reached over and grabbed Dallon’s hand, the veins blue and visible underneath pale skin. “Maybe you’re supposed to, and I’m trying to kick start your journey.”

Dallon squeezed Brendon’s hand, then let go. Brendon’s chest tightened unpleasantly. “I’m too old to go on a journey to find myself. Try talking to younger-me, see if you can really change history.”

“Thank me in your Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech.”

Dallon looked back at his computer. “No promises.”

When he looked up again, Brendon was gone, and a brand new copy of _Misery_ sat on the desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: tenlittle-cockbites


	3. Dust to Dust

“I like you like this, the best.”

Dallon knocks over Brendon’s white king piece. “Checkmate. Why?”

Brendon swears, glaring at Dallon, who is smiling, wide and warm. “I’ve played chess with the guy who _invented_ it, and you’re still better than me.”

Starting to put the pieces pack onto their respective squares, Dallon shrugs. “ _You’re_ the one who taught me.” Brendon swears again, grumpily putting his own pieces down. “Why?” Dallon asks again, after a moment.

Brendon spins the board after it’s been set up, groaning as his fate is decided as the white pieces again. “I’ve been white the past four times.”

“Brendon, _why_.”

“You’re happiest in your thirties,” Brendon says finally, moving his first piece.

“I was a happy kid,” Dallon says, voice slightly muffled by his hand as he thinks. He’s shirtless, and there’s a hickey on his collarbone that’s distracting. Brendon has been blaming his poor chess playing skills on that.

“I didn’t say you weren't,” Dallon moves a piece into a bad spot, so Brendon quickly takes it, then continues, “you’re just… different here.”

Dallon scratches his cheek, taking the piece that Brendon just moved easily. Brendon slumps, staring at the board helplessly. “It’s the afterglow.”

Brendon wasn’t sure how that had happened. Brendon had found him in his office right off the lecture hall that Dallon was always in, less pictures on the Brendon Sightings board this time. Dallon finished his work quickly, taking Brendon back to his apartment that he had been in once or twice now, then kissed him as soon as they were in the doorway. Brendon had just sort of rolled with it, had kissed him back and moved down and down and-

They'd been playing chess for a few hours, now, still not dressed except for their underwear. Brendon was wearing some of Dallon’s, and would probably leave with some of his clothes, too.

Sighing, Brendon moved a piece that would probably get taken by Dallon’s in a few turns anyway. “You’re distracting.”

Dallon scoffed, moving a piece forward. “So are you, but I haven't lost the last five matches.”

He was right, on some sort of scale. Brendon needed to leave soon. Every piece moved or every kiss shared just reminded Brendon that he could never, ever stay too long. And Brendon hadn’t missed the thin white lines on Dallon’s thighs while they were busy in bed- he hadn’t always been happy, no matter what Dallon said. Brendon hasn’t seen the fallout of their kiss, kisses, when Dallon was eighteen yet. And he’d be upset, _really_ upset, if memory served Brendon correct. He wasn’t ready.

They went back and forth, stealing pieces until Dallon wins again.

“I have to go,” Brendon says, pushing his chair away from the table. “If you beat me at chess one more time I might need to go play to professionals to get my groove back.”

Dallon stands, following Brendon back into his bedroom. Brendon starts to dig through drawers, pulling out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that reads ‘keep calm, I’m a history major!’ Brendon holds it up and laughs.

“The class I TA’d for got it for me,” Dallon stumbles out, reaching forward to take it out of Brendon’s hands. “Half of the shirts in there are just dumb history jokes.”

Brendon pulls out another that says ‘history, it’s about time!’ and quickly slips it on. “I like this one!”

Dallon leans against the doorway, his shirt still in his hands, watching Brendon dress. “Will I get it back?”

“Maybe, if you’re nice the next time I see you.” Brendon moved over to his bag at the bottom of the bed, pulling out the thin red book and slipping the backpack onto his shoulders. He approached Dallon, handing over the book. “It’s called _The Curious Case Of Maria England_ , I stole it from a bookshop in 3089.”

“You like taking things that aren’t yours,” Dallon notes as Brendon presses his forehead against Dallon’s bare shoulder.

“Oh, shut up.” Brendon smiles when he feels Dallon press his lips to the top of his head. “‘Til next time?”

“Always.”

<•>

He was just going to watch. Be the fly on the wall. Watch his speech, clap when he gets his diploma, then jump away to go leave a graduation present somewhere in time that he would find one day; pin a picture onto the board that he doesn’t have yet.

Brendon wouldn’t stay for long. He kept repeating that mantra over and over as his boy walked up the steps of the platform, green graduation gown and cap shining in the sun. His black hair poked out from underneath the cap, curling at his neck from the summer heat. It was cute. Adorable, really.

Brendon held his breath as Dallon stepped up to the podium, his blue eye scanning the crowd, stopping at his family, a few rows down from Brendon. Father absent, but all three siblings and mother present.

When he opens his mouth to speak, Brendon turns his attention away from the little family.

“Good afternoon everyone. My academic experience has been a long and strange one, as I’m sure every student here could agree.” A few people in the crowd of green laugh and nod. “It would not have been so strange or so great without my friends, Bryan, Drew, Matt, Michael, and Ryan. You can’t make up the stunts we pulled, like when Drew dressed up like Michael’s mom to get him out of school,” a family towards the front of the stands laughs, “when we dyed Ryan’s hair blue during our free period in the girl’s bathroom,” the group of guys next to Dallon’s empty seats begin to laugh and shove at one of their friends, “or on Valentine's Day our sophomore year when we went around to each class, passing out forms to find Bryan a girlfriend. We never did, but you can find him living in his parents’ basement for the next couple of years if you’re interested.”

The whole crowd laughs this time.

The microphone picks up the sound of Dallon shuffling papers on the podium. “I don’t know where I would be without my siblings, Jordan, Weston, and Elle, who beat me in every race except for the academic ones.” Brendon looks over at Dallon’s family, who are all smiling so wide. They all look like each other, pointy noses and natural dark brown hair. Their mother is honey blonde, though, with soft round features.

“And of course, I wouldn’t be standing in front of you all today if it weren’t for my mother, the smartest and most kind woman in the world. She is one of the few people who can beat me at chess, saved up her tips to buy me a ukulele, and has encouraged me every step of the way.” Dallon sucks in a shaky breath. “Maman, vous avez beaucoup vécu et je suis une personne meilleure à cause de vous. Je vous aime, merci pour votre amour et votre soutien sans fin.”

Whispers echo through the high school stadium, but Brendon notices the shine in his mother’s face, her daughter hugging her tightly. _Mom, you have lived through so much and I am a better person because of you. I love you, thank you for your endless love and support._

“And finally, to Brendon,” Dallon looks up from his paper, locking eyes with Brendon, who gulps. For a few seconds, it feels like just them. Just the two of them, like it was in his bedroom some time ago- the boy and his ukulele and his textbooks and his time traveler friend.

Brendon closes his eyes and jumps away before he can hear the rest.

<•>

 _Planet Telex_ drifts through the speakers connected to the record player. That's the first thing that Brendon notices; the music. It’s not exactly Brendon’s go-to _Radiohead_ , but something about Thom Yorke’s voice is very suddenly the exact thing that Brendon wants to hear, because now he knows where he is, who he’s with. He’s in good company, now.

“Fuck!” Brendon says, exasperated, kicking one of the kitchen chairs. It moves with a loud screeching noise and Brendon flinches. Dallon could have company, his family over or other teachers, an infinite amount of reasons why this could be bad timing popping into Brendon’s mind.

Brendon sucks in a shaky breath, his heartbeat slowing down. He couldn’t help but feel like that had been a close one. Close to what, he didn’t know. But his internal clock was ticking away unhappily.

He didn’t bother turning when the light flickered on. He just rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust.

“Brendon?”

Brendon hummed, not wanting to look over at Dallon yet. He wished he had known where he had just come from. There was an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. Everything felt _wrong_.

“Brendon,” Dallon repeated, moving forward and putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon sniffed, wiping his eyes quickly. Dallon’s grip was grounding, something familiar and known, never, _ever_ forgotten. Brendon finally turned to him, pulling Dallon against his chest so he could bury his face into the sweater that smelled ordinary, like home. “Where are you know?”

Hands ran down Brendon’s back comfortingly. Hot tears stained the sweater. “Dallon James, Dallon James. I’m so sorry, I have no idea, I don’t know,” he rambled on and on into Dallon’s chest, not having even looked at him properly. He was so tired of running, of not knowing where he was coming from. Dallon was here, Dallon was home. Wherever he was in his life, there was always room for Brendon. “Je suis tellement fatigué, je ne veux plus le faire,” Brendon whispered, pressing one of his hands to the side of his face. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. “Jeg vil hjem, jeg vil hjem. Chýba mi to, chýbalo mi to, ako to bolo predtým, prečo sa to stalo? Ja no puc fer-ho.”

Brendon felt Dallon press his mouth to the top of his head. “I only understood that first part.”

“Ine sindikudziwa, ine sindikudziwa.”

“Okay,” Dallon said, pulling away, just a little, pressing his hands to the sides of Brendon’s face. Brendon finally got a good look at him, the wrinkles on his face and the grey in his hair. “Do you need to sleep? It’s late, I was grading papers.”

 _Maquiladora_ is playing, now. Brendon tries to ground himself, tries to find some words that make sense in his head. He doesn’t need to sleep. If he needed that, he’d be at Jon’s. No, he needs a distraction.

“I’ll help you grade, uh. Papers.”

Dallon blinks. “Whatever you say.”

•

“How old are you,” Brendon says after nearly an hour of silence, scribbling in the margins of one of the papers. The girl who wrote the paper has a nice writing style, but lacks good information about the topic at hand. Her handwriting is neat and curly, familiar. The name in the corner reads _Sarah Orzechowski_. Brendon stares at it for a little while, confused.

Dallon is moving through his stack of papers a lot faster than Brendon himself is, used to it by now. He doesn't miss a beat as he answers, continuing his fluid pen movements. “Seventy. Still. You visited me a few months ago.” Dallon pushes his glasses up his nose and sniffs. “I don’t usually see you this close together. At least not since I was a kid.”

The sound of papers shuffling fills the room when Brendon doesn’t answer. The record stopped playing almost twenty minutes ago, but neither got up to change it. Brendon hadn’t spoken much since Dallon had given him the stack of papers and the red pen. For the first time in his life, he felt much smaller than the situation he was in. He wanted to remember. But what?

This. He wanted to remember this.

 _As desperate people immigrated to the United States for the chance to live a better life often discovering upon arrival, however, that their situation was as bad, if not worse that it was before. New Immigrants, the majority of which did not speak English_ -

Brendon rubbed his eyes. “I have the worst case of déjà vu.”

“That must happen a lot to you,” Dallon mutters, still not looking up. Brendon wished he would.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m a robot.” Brendon watches as Dallon stops writing. “They exist, later, you know. And I have all these memory gaps. And then I wonder if- if someone ripped me apart right now, would I be made up of wires and gears? Or maybe I’ve already been torn up, because sometimes I feel like that. A malfunctioning robot.”

Dallon is staring at Brendon now, but he can’t stop rambling. At least it’s English now.

“I run around throughout time and I meet all these people but the only one I’ve ever returned to is you. But. There are others, too, I’m sure of it. I can remember people when I think hard enough or I don’t think at all- they just show up.” Brendon's hand is shaking around the pen that he is holding. “People who have been lost to time. Or they’re lost in my memories, buried underneath all the wires. Or they were in a hard drive that got taken out!”

“Brendon-”

“But it’s like I still have that hard drive, you know? I’m holding onto it, I’m staring at it, but I can't figure out how to put it back in.”

Dallon has crossed the room and is kneeling in front of Brendon, his hands reaching forward to take the pen and lace their fingers together. Brendon was crying again. He was having a shitty night.

“Brendon, Brendon, it’s okay.”

Brendon tugged his hands away, wiping at his face. “I have to go.”

Dallon stood up as quickly as he could, he was old now, after all, and backed away. Brendon could’ve been seeing things, but for a moment, it looked like Dallon had clear streaks down his face. He was imagining things.

The taller man sniffed. “I was called a robot as a kid because I wasn’t expressive. It’s not so bad.”

Brendon set the thick book on the table, nodding. He jumped away without saying anything else, a heavy weight in his stomach.

One robot to another.

_Robot Building for Dummies_

<•>

Brendon decided, ultimately, to face his problems head on. Be the bigger man, per se.

The problem was that Brendon didn’t know what to do. Dallon was nineteen, he’d had a whole year to be mad at Brendon. And teenagers were good at that: being mad. Holding grudges. Making regrettable life decisions. Brendon wasn’t ready for the fury he knew he’d be facing once the kid finally noticed him.

They were in the library of the University of Oklahoma, Dallon doing homework at a table with two guys, and Brendon hiding behind a shelf a few feet away. Dallon was by himself on his side of the table, buried over a book. He may be mad at Brendon, but he was still majoring in history. That was Brendon’s boy.

Nineteen year old Dallon no longer had black hair, but it was still messy and short. He was clean shaven, unlike the guy who was directly in front of him, who was asleep on his hand. Brendon couldn’t see the third guy very well, except for curly brown hair and a long finger that poked and prodded at the face of the sleeping guy. Brendon snickered.

After thirty seven minutes, the boy's collected their stuff and woke up their friend, standing up and beginning to discuss where they were going to go for lunch. Brendon stepped back further into the aisle, waiting for them to pass.

“No way, Pete said he and Mikey went there and were puking for _days_ \- hey!” Dallon yelped when Brendon tugged at the collar of his sweater, pulling him into the row where Brendon was hidden. Dallon spun around, a confused look on his face that is quickly replaced by something darker, meaner. It isn't a good look on his handsome features. His nose scrunched, not in the cute way it usually looked, and his blue eyes flickered angrily. “What the fuck?”

Dallon’s friends enter the aisle rushed in, frowns on their faces. Curly speaks up first, but it isn’t what Brendon expects.

“Do I know you?”

Brendon spares a glance at the kid. Dallon’s height, curly brown hair, brown eyes. Not ringing any bells. “Don’t think so.” Brendon looks back at Dallon, who pushes Brendon’s hand away from his collar. “Dallon, listen-”

“No! I don’t wanna hear it!” Brendon moves forward, unsure what his intentions are, but Beardy steps forward, putting an arm in front of Dallon.

“Listen, I don't know how you guys know each other, but he clearly doesn’t want to talk to you.”

_I’ll get over it. I always do._

How?

Brendon stared at Dallon, who looked more pissed off than Brendon had ever seen him. Dallon had a hand in his hair and was adamantly avoiding Brendon’s gaze. “Dallon. Dallon James Weekes, please look at me. We need to talk, you know we do.”

Dallon’s icy blue eyes find Brendon’s. His friends watch the pair as they stare each other down.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes, Brendon isn’t sure. Finally, Dallon pushes the guys’ arm down. “Fine. You guys go on ahead. Just let me know where you end up.”

Curly looks skeptical. “Are you sure, Dal-”

“ _Yes_ , Ryan. Go.” When the pair don’t move, Dallon gives not-Ryan a shove, pushing him lightly into Ryan. “Please.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Come on, Spencer.” The two disappear.

Uncomfortable silence passes before Dallon says something. “What? Kissing me, jumping away, showing up at graduation, and jumping _again_ isn’t enough for you?” Brendon opens his mouth, but Dallon keeps going, approaching Brendon, pointing a finger at him. “No, let me finish. You,” Brendon snaps his mouth shut, “were probably off kissing prettier boys and girls or playing house with ancient philosophers. Or _maybe_ you were with me! Helping a lost kid find his parents or making the most of things with adult me! Well it’s unfair, Brendon. It’s fucking _unfair_.”

Brendon doesn’t get to ask how, because Dallon keeps going. “I wish you could live in the present,” Dallon spits, his voice filled with venom. Brendon winces. “You’re the one constant in my life. And you know why that sucks?”

Dallon looks expectantly at Brendon. Brendon gulps before he says, “why?”

“Because you’re never here.”

Dallon lets out this sort of chilling, humorless laugh. Brendon just stares at him. He’s suddenly reminded of the scars that are on Dallon’s arms and thighs in the future. If Brendon lifted one of those sleeves…

Instead, Brendon reaches forward, taking Dallon’s pale hand. He’s never been this pale. Brendon shakes that thought away when Dallon quickly tugs his hand away. Brendon tries again, holding tighter, this time. Dallon tugs, but isn’t released. “I wish I could be here all the time. I wish I could age with you. But I can’t.” After a moment, Brendon adds, “You’ll understand that some day.”

“Don’t _say_ that!” Dallon manages to get his hand away, pulling it to his chest. “I’m not a child! I’m not a lesson that you can teach! I’m a human being, not some abstract thought that you can mess around with.”

Well, when you put it that way.

“I don’t mean to…”

Dallon looks up, somewhere just above Brendon’s head. He runs at his arm, still clutched to his chest. “Of course you don’t. You’ll understand some day.” His tone is bitter.

Silence, again. Brendon wants to kiss him, for some reason. Make him smile, let him know that the world isn’t so bad. But that would be a lie.

“I’m so sorry,” Brendon settles on saying. “I know that ‘sorry’ will never make up for what you’ve felt in the past year, but…” Brendon shrugs his bag off his shoulders and unzips it, pulling out the book. Dallon takes it.

For a second, the icy air disappears. They are just Brendon and Dallon, like they always are. But it returns as soon as the book is out of Brendon’s hand.

“You have no idea what you did to me.”

“I know I don’t.”

Dallon seems to think that that's an acceptable answer. “Okay.”

Brendon holds his breath. “Okay?”

Dallon nods, running one of his hands through his hair. “Yes. You’re not… quite forgiven. But.” Dallon sighs. “You’re the one constant in my life,” he repeats.

A smile creeps across Brendon’s features. Dallon’s right expression doesn’t change, but he looks off in the direction of where his friends went. Brendon remembers what lies underneath Dallon’s surface, now. He opens his mouth, but Dallon beats him, again.

“I have to go.” Brendon can hear his own voice in Dallon’s. Brendon nods, maybe too quickly.

“Go ahead.”

Dallon starts to walk, then turns back to Brendon. “Do you know Ryan? Really?”

Brendon thinks about Dallon’s friend. Round face, soft features. Curly hair, brown eyes, concerned and lost expression. Ryan.

“No.”

An unreadable look crosses Dallon’s face, then he turns and leaves Brendon alone in the science fiction aisle. Brendon wonders if there is some sort of irony in that.

<•>

Brendon didn’t keep a journal, but he was considering starting one now. Maybe, somewhere down the line, after his inevitable and hopefully epic death, someone would find and publish the journal and all of the tales inside under some name that wasn’t Brendon’s, and it would have some catchy title like A Time Traveler’s Guide to the World despite not having any actual life lessons other than ‘pet all the dogs’ and ‘don't talk to teenagers’. There could be a chapter dedicated just to entries about his stays with Jon and the best curry of all time, or Aratus and the stars. The possibilities were quite literally endless, something to think about when Brendon didn’t want to think.

  
Dallon would have to be the final chapter, because Brendon was sure that the kid/teen/man would be the death of him. Brendon was pretty sure he could write forever about Dallon. He wouldn’t just be the final chapter, he’d have to be the last half of the book, broken up by his age. Brendon could write about child Dallon, with his missing teeth, fluffy hair, wide eyes, and large vocabulary. And teen dallon, black hair and ukulele with his sweet kiss. College-student-Dallon who resented Brendon for reasons Brendon would never comprehend but still let him sleep off the alcohol on his couch. Mature, adult Dallon who taught history that Brendon was making and wore glasses and bow ties and converse.  
  
It’d end with an epic monologue about life and death and time and love, some sort of shout into the cosmos about how nothing is real and everything is relative. Brendon was running from something on the tip of his tongue and he was ready to spit it out and stomp on it.  
  
Maybe it was time. Running away from himself.  
  
Oh, the _fucking_ irony.

“I didn’t think you liked coffee.”

Dallon has been languidly sipping out of the ceramic coffee mug for the last hour, writing in a journal. It’s the same one that Brendon has seen hundreds of times, he’s fairly positive. Worn black leather, wrinkled and browning pages. Its contents remained a mystery.

“It’s an acquired taste. The older I get, the more I like coffee.”  Dallon writes one more line, then shut the book. He downs the rest of the coffee in one gulp, glancing over the edge at Brendon. He sets the mug down with a satisfied ‘ah’, then lifts his hand to wipe his mouth against the back. Dallon has dark circles under his eyes, which Brendon chops up to the mid-life crisis that Dallon claims to be having. Brendon doesn’t pester him about it. “I’m more curious about why you’re wearing goggles.”

Brendon reaches up to touch the goggles that sit on top of his head. “Steampunk makes a comeback in a couple decades.”

Dallon shoots a pointed look at the sequin scarf around Brendon’s neck, but doesn’t say anything regarding it.

Brendon takes a bite of the pastry they’ve been sharing. Dallon watches with avid interest. “You seem very pensive today,” Brendon notes.

  
“Have you ever met another time traveler?”

Brendon nearly chokes on the sugary pastry, quickly looking around the tiny cafe for anyone who might be listening to them. A girl with a computer types rapidly with her headphones in, and an uninterested barista wipes a table a few feet away. Brendon leans forward, lowering his voice a few decibels. “No, I don’t think so.” A beat. “Have _you_?”

“No. There are all sorts of forums where people claim that _they_ have.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , others exist. Maybe. Not all of those people could be completely crazy.” Dallon runs one of his thin fingers around the rim of the coffee mug.

Brendon taps his fingers against the table. “Those people are backstabbers if they met a time traveler and immediately went onto some website to talk about it.”

“Maybe they’re not all… _like_ you and me.”

Clicking from the girl on the computer and some pop song on the radio fills the quiet between them.

 _Like what_? Brendon wants to ask. Attached? Romantically involved on occasion? Two robots trying to find their way through the world?

Instead, he says, “What’s in the notebook?”

Dallon’s expression flattens, his lips pressing together tightly. “It’s not important.” He sets his hands on top of the journal protectively. Brendon isn’t convinced.

“Yes it is. You always have that thing.”

The man across from Brendon flushes. “It’s really stupid.” Brendon shakes his head, reaching forward to put his hands on top of Dallon’s.

“I promise, it isn’t.”

Reluctantly, Dallon pulls his hands away, leaving Brendon’s on the notebook. Brendon pulls it to himself quickly, but doesn’t open it immediately, running his fingers across the seams and worn edges of the paper, waiting for Dallon to speak.

“It’s every time you’ve ever visited me. So far.”

Brendon opens up the book, wonder and confusion on his features. He picks a random page, then flicks back a few to find the beginning of the entry.

The top of the page says ‘ _March 19th, 27 years old’_. Brendon skins through the entry, a small smile on his face. Dallon watches anxiously.

“I remember this,” Brendon says, quietly. “You were still TA-ing and working in that record shop. We made out in the back until your shift ended.”

Dallon sets his chin on his fist, crinkling his nose. “Be careful with what you read. You might spoil yourself.”

Brendon finishes reading the entry, not caring about Dallon’s attention to detail. He describes what Brendon was wearing (bell-bottom jeans, women’s crop top, tight leather jacket), where he had been coming from (didn’t know), the book he brought with him ( _Satin Care_ ), and if he had aged at all (he hadn’t). Brendon thinks it's endearing.

Dallon takes it back defensively when Brendon shuts it. “This is the most important thing I own. I take it with me everywhere.”

“When did you start?”

Dallon doesn't even pause to think about it. “My mother got it for me when I was eight. The first seventeen entries I had to go from memory.”

“I wish I could read the angsty entries from when you were eighteen.”

“No you don’t.” Dallon stares at the book in his hands. “I’ve tried to piece your timeline together. But it gets… fuzzy.”

Brendon shrugs. He can’t help it. He’s accepted that he’ll never know all the answers. Brendon reaches forward, grabbing the last piece of pastry off their plate, tossing it into his mouth. “Why?”

Taken aback, Dallon stammers out a, “why what?”

“Why do you do that? Keep a journal?”

He is quiet for a moment, thinking over his answer. “One time, I told you that I was afraid of you forgetting me. Well. One day, you’ll have this. And you never will.”

<•>

When Brendon had decided to jump to Dallon, _this_ wasn’t what he had been anticipating.

He was standing in the heart of a huge house party, loud music thumping in his ears and the distinct smell of alcohol in the air. Brendon blinked once he was standing firm on the ground, whipping around, trying to find Dallon. Had he messed up? Dallon said he didn’t go to parties, not since his twenty-first birthday.

Oh.

Brendon pushed through the crowd of people on the home-made dance floor, suddenly very, very worried. They’d find each other, they always would, Brendon reminded himself, trying to keep an eye out for the tall man.

What felt like hours passed, but was probably really only a few minutes, until Brendon found Dallon, on a couch on the second floor, a dazed look on his face and a girl on his lap, her lips pressed to his neck. Something in Brendon’s heart boiled over.

“Dallon!” Brendon said loudly, not bothering to wait until Dallon was no longer occupied.

The girl quickly rolled off of Dallon, but kept herself close to him. Dallon’s facial expression didn’t change, but his eyes opened a bit more. “Brendon! Brendon, how long ‘ave you been here?” Dallon held his arms open, pushing the girl away from him accidentally. Brendon can’t help but feel good about that. “‘Ave a shot!”

Dallon reached forward onto the messy coffee table where a tray of shot glasses sat. Dallon picked up two, offering one to Brendon. When Brendon shook his head, Dallon knocked them both back with ease. “Brendon, Brendon, ‘ave yew met my girlfriend? I don’t remember her name. ’m in love with her.” Dallon sets down the empty shot glasses, gesturing to the girl beside him. She scoffs, crossing her arms across her chest.

Brendon holds back a laugh. “Hi.”

The girl looks at Brendon tightly. “ _Hi_. We’re not together.” She looks back at her not-boyfriend. “Dallon, I’m gonna go find Spencer. I’m probably going to fuck him.”

“Okay. Be good, baby. Love you.”

The girl rolls her eyes, stands up, and disappears into the night. Brendon takes her spot next to Dallon, pressing his hands to Dallon’s bicep. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, but he’s sweating profusely. “Dallon, look at me.”

Dallon looks over at Brendon, a lopsided smile on his face and no life in his eyes. Brendon exhales sadly. “How much have you had to drink? Oh shit, have you had any _drugs_?”

Dallon rolls his head back, staring at Brendon with that strange smile on his face. “Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ.” Brendon cups the back of Dallon’s neck, forcing him upright. “You need to go home.”

Humming, Dallon slaps Brendon’s hands away. Brendon stares at him, his mouth falling open. Dallon stands up, wobbling a little on his long legs. Brendon gets up, following him.

“Yew should drink sumthin’ before- ey!” Dallon shouts abruptly, moving to a corner by the staircase. Brendon glances down it warily, wondering how many drunk people have fallen down them.

In the corner stands Ryan and a pair that Brendon doesn't recognize. Ryan looks a little far-gone himself, a joint between his lips and a far away gaze in his eyes. He doesn’t look at Brendon, which is obviously intentional. Brendon doesn’t care, keeping his focus on Dallon, who is having trouble standing straight. The two guys next to Ryan exchange a glance. The taller one with glasses and spiky black hair speaks up first.

“Jesus Dallon, you’ve drank way too much.”

Short guy with eyeliner nods. “Why don’t you let your friend here take you home, buddy?”

Dallon waves them off, taking the joint from Ryan’s mouth and putting it in his own. His shoulders visibly relax. “No way, it’s my birthday, I get to celebrate.”

“Happy fucking birthday, are you gonna fucking pay for that?” Ryan says stubbornly, taking the joint back. “Seriously, go home before you drink yourself to death.”

“You’re going to have the _worst_ hangover, dude,” Eyeliner says, leaning forward to give Dallon’s shoulder a light shove. He still stumbles, falling right into Brendon, who just barely manages to hold him up.

“Pete,” Dallon runs a hand down his face, “that’s the worst thing you’ve ever done.” Brendon watches helplessly as Dallon pulls away, moves to a houseplant, and promptly throws up into it.

The three men watch their friend with varying expressions on their face. Ryan looks bored, almost amused, Eyeliner appears to be deciding whether or not to help him, and Glasses looks about ready to push Dallon down those stairs. Brendon feels simply helpless.

Ryan brings his joint back to his mouth, rolling his eyes. “I won’t tell Saporta if you guys don’t.”

The others hum in agreement as Dallon straightens back up, his face pale. “I need another drink,” he mutters, wandering off.

Brendon spares Ryan a glance, who is looking at him with interest. “I’ll get him home,” Brendon reassured him, starting to move forward.

“Brendon,” Ryan starts. Brendon spins around. Their eyes lock, and for just a moment, Brendon remembers something, _something_ , pale skin and flashes of the color red and birds-

“What?” Both men have looks of confusion on their face. Brendon never told Ryan his name. Is fairly positive Dallon never would've told him. Glasses and Eyeliner look between them like spectators at a tennis match.

Ryan blinks, unsure. He’s confused, too. “Uh, don’t. Lose him.”

Brendon nods quickly, then disappears into the crowd after Dallon. He doesn't want to think about whatever just happened.

Dallon stayed on the second floor, thank Christ, but was now _literally_ on the floor, other drunk people casually stepping around him. When Brendon reaches him, he crouches down, pressing his hand to the sides of Dallon’s face. Dallon just looks at him, his mouth hanging open comically. Brendon doesn’t laugh.

“Dallon James Weekes,” Brendon starts, but doesn’t finish. He bumps their foreheads together. Dallon sucks in a small breath.

“I went to go get another drink,” Dallon hiccups, “but they wouldn’t let me. So I sat down.”

“I’m glad you did. Can you stand up?”

Brendon can feel Dallon shake his head _no_ against his own. Brendon huffs, trying to come up with a plan. “Okay. Grab the straps of my bag.” Dallon does, wrapping his long fingers around the black straps as tightly as his hazy mind can muster. Brendon reaches down, putting his hands underneath Dallon’s armpits and hauling him up, bumping into a few passers-by in the process. But Dallon is standing in Brendon’s arms. He can live with that.

The walk home is quiet. Brendon’s ears are ringing from the loud music. Dallon’s house is further away this time, not to mention that he keeps giving Brendon the wrong directions. Brendon’s been trying to keep him talking, but it gets harder the more they walk.

“That girl, she’s your girlfriend?” Brendon manages, turning a corner. Dallon is still holding onto the straps of Brendon’s backpack, trying to steady himself with every step they take. Very few of Dallon’s answers have been comprehensible.

“She comes,” Dallon hiccups again, “and goes as she pleases.”

“You love her?”

“When ’m drunk.” Dallon laughs sardonically, tugging on the black straps. Brendon keeps his eyes on the sidewalk in front of them, counting the cracks. “I love you, though.”

Brendon stops abruptly, his eyes trained straight ahead. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re… drunk. Besides, we’re not on the best terms at this point in your life.”

Brendon starts to walk again. Dallon's feet scuff on the ground and Brendon counts cracks again. When Dallon gives directions, now, they actually get to the same little house that Brendon will visit in a year. They get up the steps and inside with little to no issues, except for Dallon making a beeline to his bathroom as soon as they step into the threshold.

Brendon sits quietly on the couch, noting disdainfully that nothing will change in a year except for the contents of the coffee table and the books on the shelves.

Puking, a toilet flushing, water running, spitting. This repeats for a few minutes before Brendon gets up to go help Dallon.

Dallon sits on the linoleum floor, his sweatshirt and t-shirt discarded on the counter. The tiny room reeks of vomit and listerine. Dallon, quite frankly, looks like shit. His face is pale, his hair is messy from running his hands through it and tugging on the brown locks while hunched over the toilet. His skin and face are wet with sweat. His legs are too long for the little bathroom, so his knees are bent. One of his elbows sits on his knees, holding up his head. Pinkish-red scars are visible, but Dallon doesn't bother hiding them from Brendon.

Brendon sits on the edge of the bathtub to the right of Dallon, carding his hand through Dallon’s hair languidly. He leans into it, just a little, closing his eyes. “Do you feel better?”

“No.” Dallon wipes and his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. “I think I’m still drunk.” A shaky breath escapes Dallon’s mouth, his back heaving. He coughs once, twice, then moves forward to puke into the toilet again. Brendon brushes Dallon’s hair away from his forehead, his other hand running up and down Dallon’s back.

When Dallon is done, he pressed his face against the rim of the toilet, closing his eyes. “I love you.” A sad smile spreads across his face. “I love you _so much_.”

Brendon gets down onto his knees, leaning over the other side of the toilet. He brushes wet hair away from Dallon’s face and behind his ear. One blue eye opens to stare into Brendon’s.

It feels like a slap to the face when his heart speeds up, and that thing in his stomach starts to flutter anxiously. Brendon loves him, he does. But he can’t say it.

The words that come out of Brendon’s mouth don’t feel like his own. “Oh, Dallon James Weekes. My boy.” Brendon can fear hot tears starting to well up in his eyes. Dallon just stares at him, his face stained with tears that Brendon hadn’t noticed before. “There isn’t enough time in the world.”

<•>

The retirement home wasn’t really Brendon’s favorite place to visit, but he did it anyway. All the workers there judged Brendon’s strange sense of fashion, and most of the residents complained every time he visited. But he tried to come more often at this point in Dallon’s life, knowing that he didn’t get visitors.

Dallon’s hair was white and thin, and his hands shook whenever he lifted his arms. He still had the same glasses, though, and liked to tell Brendon about the documentaries he watched on the History Channel. Brendon always listened, occasionally butting in to correct one of the details that the documentary got wrong.

“Checkmate,” Brendon says, taking Dallon’s king with a grin.

Dallon rubs his hands together, chuckling. “You’ve brushed up on your chess skills.”

Brendon starts to put their pieces back in place. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘history, it’s about time!’ on it, but Dallon says he doesn’t recognize it. Brendon shrugs it off, chopping it up to how long it had been since Dallon had lived that moment. To Brendon, it felt like yesterday. “Went to India and played until they thought I was some sort of chess god.”

“That’s unfair,” Dallon says, moving the first piece.

Brendon scratches his cheek, watching Dallon’s hand as is shakes, the piece barely landing on the spot he wants it to. Brendon moves it to the spot he wants, then moves his own. They repeat this process a few times.

Dallon takes one of Brendon’s pieces. “An old student visited me the other day.”

Brendon glances up at his old friend, raising an eyebrow. “Really? What’d they say?” Brendon moves another piece.

Dallon takes his time. He moves a piece, then says, “She asked about you.”

Brendon drops the piece he was about to move. It clatters to the table that they’re sitting at, knocking over three pieces. “What?” A few residents in the room look over at them, annoyed. Brendon flushes, putting the pieces back.

Dallon shrugs, watching Brendon struggle to gain his composure. “She was in my class about fifteen years ago. She said she remembered,” Dallon lifts his hand and air-quotes, “‘a strangely dressed man who came to watch class, then disappeared into my office’. That's you.”

A lump forms in Brendon’s throat.

“I told her that you were probably just an administrator, or another teacher coming to talk to me. She insisted that she knew you.”

“No one ever talked to me.”

“What if I tell you her name?” Brendon stares at Dallon, waiting. “Sarah Orzechowski.”

For a brief moment, everything flashes in front of Brendon’s eyes. A wedding dress, an old piano. Two dogs and a bouquet of lilies. Another time, another life-

Then, it’s gone.

“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Dallon looks skeptical, playing with the hem of his sweater. “Are you sure?”

“Fairly.”

“You just looked… for a second it looked like you remembered something.”

Brendon shrugs and moves his piece that he had dropped before. He felt tired, all of a sudden, but didn’t say anything about it. He wanted to change the subject. “I left _The Time Traveler's Wife_ in your room. I thought it would be funny.”

Dallon scoffs. “One of the ladies next door will probably love it.”

<•>

The front porch of Dallon’s childhood home is dimly lit. Brendon isn’t sure what he’s doing out here, but had ended up here anyway. It was dark out, probably past midnight, but Brendon had a feeling that Dallon would be out soon. He wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t the case.

Nails stuck out of the wood in some places, destined to be stepped on by barefooted children or mother's bringing groceries up the steps. Brendon had been absentmindedly pulling at one for the past forty minutes or so, pausing every time the wood creaked. The rust rubbed off in some places onto Brendon’s palm, staining it a reddish brown.

The door opened behind Brendon, who didn’t bother looking up from the nail.

Dallon yelped, then quickly shut the door, trying to be quiet. “Brendon! What are you doing here?”

Brendon glances up. He forgets that he may not be considered a frequenter yet. “I don't know. Wanted to see you, here I am.”

Dallon blinks, an amazed look on his face. “Oh. Okay!” Dallon shuffles over to where Brendon is sitting on the steps, sitting down next to him. “Where are you right now?”

“Painted some cave walls.”

“Do you know what today is?” Brendon shakes his head. “As of,” Dallon looks down at a watch on his wrist, “forty three minutes ago, I am sixteen years old.”

“Happy birthday,” Brendon says. He wonders if he sounds as tired as he feels. Dallon doesn’t appear to let this deter him.

“Sixteen is a big birthday, you know.”

“Is it?”

Dallon nods furiously. Brendon hasn’t missed that Dallon has been slowly moving closer to him on the steps. “Coming of age, or something.”

Brendon has an inkling. He knows where this is headed. Brendon leans down, digging around in his backpack a few steps down for the book. _Treasures Lost, Treasures Found_ read the words on the cover. Brendon grabbed it off of one of those shelves _outside_ of bookstores while he was in New York City a few jumps ago. Easy.

Dallon takes it but dismisses it quickly, setting it down next to him. “I’d like something special, for my birthday this year.”

“Dallon,” Brendon warns.

“I want you to be my first kiss, okay? I didn’t kiss Breezy at her birthday party a few months ago even though she was _technically_ my girlfriend because I wanted to wait for you and she got really mad and broke up with me.”

 _Girlfriend_. There was that word again. Brendon didn’t like how it sounded coming out of Dallon’s mouth.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” And there was _that_ again. Jesus, Dallon didn’t realize how familiar this felt to Brendon. “You’re, like, immortal, or something. It’s not really underage.”

Brendon forces a humorless laugh. “It’s worse when you put it that way.”

The teenager pouts. “Just one. Please?”

Brendon mentally slaps himself. Say no, say no, say-

“Fine.” Dallon lights up. “Just one.”

“Okay, okay.” Dallon gets as close to Brendon as he can, their thighs pressing together. Brendon is acutely aware that Dallon is only in his pajamas, boxers and a t-shirt again. This was really Brendon’s worst idea yet.

Dallon, suddenly very quiet and solemn, presses his hands to Brendon’s shoulders. Brendon, sucking in a deep breath, reluctantly presses his own hands to Dallon’s biceps. Brendon has never felt less ready for a kiss in his life.

When it happens, and Brendon isn’t really sure how it did, Brendon tries to stay very, very still. They’re just pressing their lips together, at this point, chaste and soft, nothing more, but then Dallon’s hands move up Brendon’s neck and settle on the area where his jaw meets his neck, and it forces Brendon to tilt his head, which is the wrong thing to do, because Dallon starts to move in deeper and open his mouth just a little, and Brendon can’t _help himself_.

Dallon isn’t particularly _good_ at kissing, it's his first, and second and third and fourth, after all, but Brendon can’t get enough of it. He opens his mouth so that their tongues can press against each other, and Brendon can feel Dallon’s fingers pulling at the hairs at the edge of Brendon’s neck, trying to grasp onto something _real_. Brendon pulls back for a breath, is about to go in for another when-

“Dallon _James_!”

They snap apart, Dallon’s mouth red and wet but his face radiating fear. Brendon looks over at the doorway to see a large, angry and tired looking man. Dallon’s father.

Brendon looks back at Dallon, who mouths _Go_.

Brendon exhales, grabs his bag, and does.

<•>

Of all the things that Brendon thought would one day take Dallon down, it wasn’t alzheimer’s.

He was the type to go down fighting; kicking and screaming his way into your brain and into all of our history books, not the quiet fade into nothingness like he was on track to do. The nurses said that Dallon didn’t remember much. He still plays chess, but won’t talk to other residents or nurses anymore. He watches his history documentaries and reads Brendon’s books, but doesn’t remember what they were about when he’s done.

It wasn’t fair. Dallon was the one who dreamed of ancient civilizations and wondered about the future. He deserved to be the one seeing the world, not Brendon.

His nurse, a short guy whose name tag said _Frank,_ gave Brendon the run down. How long he had been in this state, when they had noticed the deterioration, how long he had until…

Brendon tuned out the rest after that, simply following Frank into the little room at the end of the hall that had been Dallon’s for the last eight years. It looked the same on the inside, the books that lined the windowsill and the chessboard on the table next to the bed, but now there was a body in the bed that looked about ready to wither away.

Brendon wants to shout, wants to scream at the top of his lungs, at the sight of his best friend in that bed. Dallon is flipping through one of the books that Brendon had given him some time ago, not bothering to look at or process the words on the paper. One of his bony hands is pressed to the side of his face, pulling at the skin. Not hard or enough to scratch, but the movement bothers Brendon nonetheless. Here he is, his boy, reduced to skin and bones and a fragile mental state on a hospital bed, not comprehending why Brendon’s so visibly upset over him.

Dallon didn’t look up when Brendon walked in, and still doesn’t when he sits down in the chair next to the bed. Brendon’s heart beats frantically in his chest, pounding against his ribs like an animal in a cage.

“Dallon?” Brendon whispers, wonders if the old man in front of him even knows he’s here. “Dallon, it’s me. It’s Brendon.”

He finally looks up and over at Brendon, but there is no recognition on his face. In fact, there isn’t much expression on his face at all. He reminds Brendon of a robot, for a second. “Brendon?” He repeats, just as quiet.

“Yes.”

“Were you one of my students?”

“No, no I…” Brendon stammers, holding tightly onto the arms of the chair he is in. This feels like a bad dream. He should be waking up in Jon’s apartment, any second now. Three, two, one, now. Now. “We’re friends.”

“Are we?” When Brendon nods, Dallon makes a ‘huh’ noise and looks back down at his book. Brendon pinches his arm and squeezes his eyes shut. He considers jumping away, going to find a younger Dallon who will remember him and everything they’ve been through. But that would be cruel.

Brendon tries to keep the conversation going. “You always said that you were afraid I was going to forget you. I didn’t know that I should’ve been afraid of you forgetting me.”

There it is. The slap to the face. The ugly truth that Brendon had been thinking about as soon as Frank had started speaking to him. They’d had it wrong this whole time. Brendon could never, ever forget Dallon. It’s the more human side of their duo they should’ve been worried about.

Dallon doesn’t say anything. It’s worse, that way. Brendon wishes he would say something, anything. Where are you right now? Brendon would do anything to hear those five words come out of his mouth right now. Brendon was in his own personal purgatory. It didn’t matter where he came from or where he was going to be next because Dallon didn’t know who he was. The realization settled unpleasantly in Brendon’s brain. No matter where he went now, he’d have to be reminded of the future that Dallon would be living, here, in this little room.

“I love you. I’ve never told you that before.”

Still, Dallon doesn’t show any signs that he is listening or that he even recognizes that Brendon is still there.

“I never told you because me and you live two very different lifestyles. I travel too much. I wish you could come with me. You would love all the things that I’ve seen.” Brendon picks up the notebook that sits on the table and holds it gingerly in his hands. All of the pages have been written on, now. A few folded up pieces of paper are tucked into the very back, visits that couldn’t fit in next to all the others. “You told me you loved me and I told you that there wasn’t enough time.”

There isn’t. Frank said that Dallon had a few days, at least. This would probably be Brendon’s last time seeing him. He didn’t think he could handle seeing him anywhere else, knowing what lies in store.

Dallon turns a page with a shaking hand. His blue eyes don’t have the light they always did in them. The Dallon that Brendon knows isn’t in the room with them. “I’m so sorry,” Brendon says, sniffing. He always talked about wanting to go home. He had found one, but had never realized it. “J'aimerais pouvoir en dire plus.”

Dallon looks up, his eyes meeting Brendon’s. He doesn’t say anything, but seems to understand the sentiment. Brendon stands up, holding tightly onto the notebook, afraid of letting go. He leans down, pressing his mouth to the top of Dallon’s head. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t move.

Brendon pulls away, backing up. He was afraid to turn around, worried he would miss something. Dallon just looks back down at the book, eyes not moving along the lines like they should be. When Brendon finally manages to back out of the room, he doesn’t jump immediately, like he had been planning to. He presses his forehead against the white wood of the door and breathes, counts to ten, _then_ jumps away.

<•>

When Brendon opens his eyes, he drops the notebook and steps away from it like it’s on fire.

The black book sits in the green grass, unmoving. Not that Brendon expected it to. Brendon stares at it, waiting. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, but he doesn’t want to pick up the damn thing. Not yet. That would make it real.

Brendon looks around. He had tried to go to Jon’s, but that’s clearly _not_ where he was. The sun was setting over the mountains way off in the distance. There were clouds in the sky the color of cotton candy. It looked like a painting that you could see hanging in the nearest art museum. The kind of art where pretentious art critics wonder about the deeper meaning and all the little details or the inner turmoil of the artist, not even considering that maybe it’s just a pretty painting of a fucking sunset.

A few people are in the park, watching the sunset. Brendon briefly wonders what they’re going through. Brendon’s problems are simply relative compared to theirs.

Now seems like an appropriate time for that monologue about life that Brendon had wanted to write down. Brendon couldn’t find it in himself.

Love, death, time, life, etcetera. Shout into the cosmos, what have you.

Brendon sighs, reaching down to pick up the notebook. It doesn’t burn his hand or hurt his heart like he thought it would. It’s just a heavy notebook that once belonged to Brendon’s favorite person in the world.

Maybe it does hurt a little.

Brendon sits down on a bench, shrugging his backpack off and setting it down beside him. He unzips it, digging through its contents before finally pulling out the little ipod and untangling the headphones. Brendon just needs to think of something else for a while.

 _Death On Two Legs_ is the first song that plays on shuffle, so Brendon sticks with that.

Freddie Mercury’s killer vocals feel like a warm blanket, however odd that sounds. Brendon remembers standing in the front row of a Queen concert, reaching his arms out towards the god-like figure on the stage, just one person surrounded by thousands with the same view of the man in front of them. Brendon wasn’t a time traveler when he had been at that concert. He had just been a regular human. Slash robot. He hadn’t figured that out yet.

Hot tears dripped down Brendon’s face, unable to hold them back. He was a time traveler, for god’s sake. This wasn’t the end of the world.

So why did it feel like it?

On the third repeat of the song, Brendon realized that someone had sat down on the bench next to him.

By someone, he means a very small, very young, Dallon James Weekes.

“Holy shit,” is the first thing that comes out of Brendon’s mouth, which he quickly covers with his hand, ripping his headphones out of his ears.

The Dallon that is sitting next to Brendon doesn’t look at Brendon with familiar eyes, but it isn’t a look of forgetfulness, either. Dallon’s hair is long, down past his ears and curling up at the ends. A teddy-bear is wrapped up in his small arms, one of its eyes gone and the ear on the opposite side of its head is ripped open, cotton sticking out. Both boys stare at each other, waiting for the obvious to be stated.

“Why are you crying?”

“Why are _you_ crying?”

Dallon and Brendon probably mirror each other’s expressions. “I lost someone very close to me today.”

Dallon rubs his face into the teddy bear. “I can’t find my maman.”

Brendon isn’t sure what to say. Dallon doesn’t know Brendon yet. He’s a lost little kid, not the smart child or the snarky teenager that Brendon knows.

“Would you like me to help you find her?” Brendon’s voice sounds shaky.

Dallon’s voice is muffled by the bear in front of his mouth. “Dad says not to talk to strangers.”

 _I’m not a stranger_.

“Well, if you don’t want my help right now, we can talk until we’re not strangers anymore.”

Dallon blinks rapidly, considering what Brendon said.

“Here, I’ll introduce myself.” Brendon holds out his hand. “I’m Brendon.”

A small hand slides into Brendon’s after a beat. “Dallon.”

Brendon can’t help but smile. Robot to robot, stranger to friend. Brendon had thought that the end of the line had been in that retirement home, in a little room with a man who did not recognize the person in front of him. But the line didn’t have to end there. You could keep sharpening that pencil, or refill the ink in the pen, and continue on with the story. Time was funny, in that way. Even when humanity dies out, or even long before humans even appeared on earth, that line was being drawn.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dallon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: tenlittle-cockbites


	4. (It's a Must)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end.

Brendon wasn’t sure how long he had been alive.

He wasn’t sure where he was born, or what year it had been or where his family was. The only things Brendon was sure of was that his name was Brendon and that he liked Frank Sinatra.

He kept a backpack full of clothes and various items that he had acquired from his travels strapped to his back at all times. A third generation iPod Nano full of mostly Frank Sinatra, David Bowie, and Queen was his favorite companion, and was one of the few technologies that Brendon had found worked no matter where in time he travelled. He liked the small brass telescope, too, the kind of thing that movie pirates use.

Verona is a little town in the corner of Missouri. Brendon liked it better than the city in Italy for reasons he couldn’t quite put into words. The town population is in the six-hundreds, barren compared to Verona, Italy, which is upwards of two hundred thousand. Verona consisted of simply a few streets and back country roads, the biggest building being the hospital that stood right in the middle of town. It was only a few floors tall, and the inside was floor to ceiling painted white, fluorescent lights making anyone who came in look sickly.

The third floor held the maternity ward, but it was strangely quiet so late at night. Babies slept soundly in the nursery, soon-to-be-mothers were wheeled in and out of rooms by nurses in pink and blue scrubs, soon-to-be-fathers sat in the hallway, their faces pale and hands clammy. Brendon like looking at the mothers and the fathers when they passed. There was a lot of love on this floor. 

Brendon stood in front of the window to the nursery, watching with a fond smile on his face as the babies wiggled in their blue and pink blankets, or flexed their small hands into the air.

“Iz one ov zem yourze?” A voice says from beside Brendon.

Having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a short, stout woman is smiling at Brendon. Her honey blonde hair frames her round and sweet face, but the hospital gown that she wears makes her skin look paler. 

Brendon shakes his head, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Nah. You?”

The woman points at one of the little containers that the babies lay in. One in the front, a little boy swaddled up in a blue blanket.

“My fourth, and hopefully lazt.” The woman chuckles to herself. Brendon is enchanted by her accent. “I love zem, but my huzband leave me alone too much. I get outnumbered.”

“I like children, but I’ll never have my own.”

The woman smiles. “It iz never too late.” She pats Brendon’s shoulder affectionately, then disappears down the hallway. 

Brendon stares after her, then looks back at her son. Brendon lifts up his pointer finger, touching the warm glass. Brendon can just barely make out the name on the tag from here, tracing the letters against the glass. 

D-A-L-L-O-N J W-E-E-K-E-S.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are purposefully gaps in the plot. real life is cruel, and not all questions always get answered. but if you're really itching to find something out, go ahead and shoot me a message on tumblr. <3

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: allahlav


End file.
